


Put Your Worries In My Pocket

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU of an AU, Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Group Sex, Multi, WWII AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 12:30:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13190130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: It’s a day that could only happen in a dream. Perhaps that explains how she’s come to lie sprawled against Willas as he reads aloud from an increasingly risqué book of poetry, with his free hand on her breast and Jon’s hand beneath her skirt.





	Put Your Worries In My Pocket

**Author's Note:**

> A WWII AU thing for **[The Threesome In The Reach](https://archiveofourown.org/series/366293)** , where Sansa marries Willas for security after losing most of her family, Jon returns from war with PTSD and nowhere to go, and Willas just wants his wife to be happy. Prompted/inspired by this picture: 

Later, Sansa will wonder just how it happened. Right now, though, it seems only an extension of the rest of the day, a day that had passed in a pleasant, unreal haze. They’d sunned and swimmed, offering each other grapes and sandwiches and brushing the sand from one another’s backs. Sansa’s sure her cheeks are pinked from the sun, if they’re anything like Willas’s or Jon’s. Both of them have the same sun-drunk expressions, ones that match the way she feels: languid, dreamy, happier than she’s been in quite a while. Happier than it seems possible to be, given the state of the world. It’s a day that could only happen in a dream. Perhaps that explains how she’s come to lie sprawled against Willas as he reads aloud from an increasingly risqué book of poetry, with his free hand on her breast and Jon’s hand beneath her skirt.

Jon’s touch is as deft as ever. It feels as familiar as can be, even though she hasn’t felt it for years, not since she was a young girl full of dreams and songs and hope. She thought she’d marry Jon then, no matter the difference in their stations, no matter that he was her cousin and so close to the family that Robb and Arya saw him as a brother. She thought the house she lived in would be one they shared and filled with their children. Instead it’s the man behind her who is her husband, she makes her home with him in Highgarden, and Jon is no longer the boy she loved – and made love to – before he left to go to war, but a man with more scars than years.

She could almost forget he has scars at all in the soft glow of the parlor lamps. From the way he’s looking at her, she thinks maybe he could forget he has them too. The thought threatens to make her heart turn over. It has been a difficult road for him, returning wounded and shellshocked with no place to call home until Sansa invited him here. He’s struggled, she knows, from all he’s seen and done, from all he’s lost, so seeing him look at her without resentment but with affection, even desire, is more than she might have hoped.

Willas has stopped reading now. His lips press against her temple, her ear. It’s as easy as breathing to turn her face up to his to be kissed, something he does with slow thoroughness. Their marriage had been one of convenience, of mutual protection during troubled times, but something very near love had grown between them. That he could kiss her so sweetly and with such warm affection while another man is touching her so intimately goes to the heart of what she treasures about him. She may have dreamed of marrying Jon, but now that she’s Willas’s wife, it’s hard to imagine life any other way.

The tip of her breast pebbles in the cool air when he bares it for his touch. He strokes at her with his thumb, the rhythm somehow matching up to the throb between her legs at Jon’s expert manipulation. Jon always was good at this. Sansa had never thought about it before, but suddenly she’s grateful beyond measure that her first explorations had been ones of such tenderness and pleasure, that she’d learned the joys of intimacy before her time in King’s Landing could make her believe no such thing existed.

_More_ , she wants to say, _please, Jon, more_ , but Willas has gently drawn her tongue into his mouth to suck in slow, deep pulls. Mutely, she parts her legs further, tugs at Jon with her heel hooked over his thigh. Instantly, she feels him knuckling her knickers aside and dipping two fingers inside her to stroke and beckon as his thumb repeats its motions on her bare skin now.

What decadence this is, how fantastic it all seems. They could be different people, this could be another time, and nothing has ever felt more freeing to her, more filled with possibility. When she comes, her back arches up off the sofa so sharply it almost hurts. Willas swallows her cries as Jon strokes her into another peak, and then, after a brief respite, another. It leaves her feeling even more dazed and boneless than before. With a giggle, she imagines she might have to ask Jon to carry her to bed.

Somehow she thinks he wouldn’t mind. Somehow she thinks Willas wouldn’t either.


End file.
